ancient lovers, modern lovers, future lovers. i can only think of the lovers, spring in their mouths, on their tongues as they move against each other like waves, quivering in the tangle, slowing, then still, slipping into the silent evening sky, saying love is the only thing between now and nothing, these little dreams are all we’ve got, saying baby, please don’t rush back into the world, they can do with out us a little bit longer.

i studied
her shape
each curve
each line
searching
my mind
for the
words
just a few
good words
to get
her down
on paper.

after
exhausting
myself
staring at
a blank
page
i realized
i couldn’t
possibly
confine her
to a poem.

there is
no structure
no form
no shape
no line

that could
hold her.

buying a book

on how to write poetry

never seemed like a good idea

to me, but today i decided

to take a look at one such book

and see what it had to say.

the first thing it said was to drop

about a hundred bucks on supplies.

it was a long list, very unnecessary,

so i thought i’d trim the fat a bit.

i got it down to two things,

you need a notebook and a pencil,

$1.29 and free respectively,

after that you’re on your own.

go to a suburb,
any one will do.
they’re all the same.
eat at whatever
franchised grill & bar
decorates the beige neighborhood.

eat amongst
those “successful” people.
listen to their conversations
about their mortgages,
about their lawns,
about what ever is hot on television.

notice the women,
their short permed hair,
their fat asses stuffed
into purple sweatpants.

look at the men,
their thinning hair,
their bellies hanging
over their khaki slacks.

look into their dull eyes, but not for long.

then just get up & run,
run out of there as fast as you can,
run as if death itself were nipping at your heels
& then realize it was
& you pulled away.

an angel, strange dreams,

woke up in a quiet house,

the orange sun rising.

pedaling down bell street

there were six of us, drunk

on bikes under streetlights

and moon, whooping at it,

me with my summer beard

and jaunty hobo hat, my 

friend hollering “walt whitman

on a bike, the good gray poet

rides again!” at those people

sitting on their porches and

me, misquoting the old bugger,

shouting into the night air,

“look at us! we take

to the streets! we’re happy!

we’re free! the world stretched

out before us!

it’s tough i know

under rented roof

i write these poems

poems for those

who rent roofs

and eat little

and have little

so that they

might write

or paint

or just stay sane

and sometimes

it’s really hard

when the rent is late

& the bills are late too

some part of you feels guilty

you want to be a good citizen

you want to please them

but you want this more

& when your typewriter

is going and it sounds like

an alley on the fourth of july

or a gatling gun in some terrible fight

you know it’s all worth it and that

it always will be.

“I urge you to please notice when you are happy,

and exclaim or murmur or think at some point,

if this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”

i thought about this quote from vonnegut

as she put the last bite of funfetti cupcake

into my mouth and pulled her shirt up over her head.

i don’t understand

your gray affection, your cold

whispers, your icy stare.

the coffee is gone

and so is she, my hands and

mouth, suddenly still.

gilhouly’s irish pub

has an old tired

tiled front entrance

once white and new

now worn filthy from

ten thousand drunks

shuffling in and out

to puff cigarettes

to feel the lump of night

in their throats

old red faced beer men

standing in boots

weight of the world

on their blue collars

turning their heads

to spit out the taste of

their lives, they always

look up right before

they step back into

the pub, wishing i think,

for something more.